


Give and Take

by WithoutBringingMeDreams



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (sort of) spoiler speculation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithoutBringingMeDreams/pseuds/WithoutBringingMeDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by one of the 4x11 spoilers.</p><p>Ian asks for something (or demands it), but Mickey's not sure if he's ready to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey rolls over on a lump of blanket and groans. The floor isn’t that comfortable, but there really aren’t any other options in this house constantly crawling with fucking Gallaghers. Streaks of sun are hitting his face so he knows it’s way later than he should be getting up. He hasn’t been sleeping well since he started keeping Ian’s hours…and since that bitch started making her threats.

“Mick. Hey, Mick.” Ian’s voice, low and throaty, has his eyes springing open. Sleep abandons him in a heartbeat at the sight that greets him—Ian, completely naked, standing above him and stroking himself.

Fuck yeah.

Mickey throws off the mess of blankets and rises to meet Ian, in every sense possible. His lips are itching so bad for Ian’s mouth that he doesn’t even have time to do his hesitant lip bite before he’s stretching up for a kiss.

Ian obliges but then pushes him away, hard, so that he falls backwards on the bed.  The fucker’s been so damn controlling lately…and Mickey loves it. He whips off his shirt while Ian gets rid of his boxers.

Then they’re kissing again, god, so much fucking kissing. Like floodgates have opened and now they have to kiss enough to make up for all those years…so many years of only half-enjoying this thing between them when Mickey could’ve been touching, tasting, _feeling_ everything.

‘Cause yeah, feeling shit is scary, but it’s also so damn good. And Mickey can get used to it—to trusting Ian completely—if it means fucking sex like _this._

They roll together in a tangled embrace and Ian’s long legs slam into the desk. Something clatters to the floor—one of Liam’s toys from the sounds of it.

Mickey pauses for a moment, his lips swollen and nearly as annoyed with the interruption as his dick. “Door’s locked, right?”

Ian grunts and pulls away, and now Mickey’s body is even more furious with his betrayal. He needs that contact back, and quickly.

“It’s like ten in the morning, Mickey. Debs and Carl are at school. Liam’s with Lip on the way to his dorm. Fiona’s leaving any minute for another interview. Who exactly do you think is gonna come busting in here?”

It takes Mickey a second to respond, because he really just wants to forget he asked and get back to the fucking…and because his biggest fear of who’ll come through that door isn’t rational. At least, not unless his father orchestrates a prison break.

But fear, as usual, just makes him angry, and he snaps at Ian. “Fiona is still here? What the fuck!”

Ian rolls his eyes and sits up. “Yeah, my sister the felon, who just fucked up her whole life…I’m sure top on her list of things to do this morning is walk in on me and find me fucking.”

“She probably will, with our fucking track record!” Mickey shoots back.

“Yeah.” Ian retreats to the edge of the bed and then stands. Mickey almost reaches out to stop him, but he just can’t get his hands to move fast enough. “And what if she did? Jesus, Mickey. The same old shit. We can’t ever make any fucking progress, can we? One step forward and five steps back. This is never gonna work.”

Mickey’s skin flashes hot and then cold with those last words out of Ian’s mouth. What the fuck? How’d they gotten so off track in just a matter of seconds?

But fuck. He can’t have this. Not again. All thoughts of sex are gone and this time Mickey manages to get his fucking arms to work. He grabs at Ian’s hips. With the fear coursing through him the anger surfaces again, too, but this time it’s mostly for himself.

“Don’t, Ian. Come on, come back here. Shit. Just relax, okay?”

“Don’t tell me to fucking relax!” Ian’s practically shaking now, like he’s only barely suppressing some long-hidden rage. “So my sister walks in on us and what, we have to kill her then? That how it’s gonna go?”

Shit. Mickey curls back on the bed, air rushing through clenched teeth. Having his mistakes thrown back at him cuts deep, especially coming from Ian. It wasn’t like the kid to hold a grudge…not that Ian had been completely _like himself_ since he’d gotten back.

Ian’s still glaring at him so he has to force himself to speak. And when he does, he hates that rattle deep in his throat, like he has goddamn tears trapped in there, waiting to get out. Only Ian does that to him. “Nah, man. I’m not gonna freak, I promise. I just…don’t need anyone else finding out right now, okay?”

 _Wrong answer._ Ian crosses his arms and goddamn he looks hot when he’s angry. Especially angry and naked. But Mickey can’t take the time to appreciate it now.

“Of course not. Can’t let anyone know that badass Mickey Milkovich is really a fag, now can we. You know what? Go home to your wife and kid.”

The bottom drops out. It’s a combination of all of Mickey’s worst fears, all swirled together—losing Ian, having to go back to that lie of a life, being under his father’s thumb once again. Fury is the first to hit him, making his mind blank out for a few glorious seconds. Except he just can’t hold on to the anger the way he used to. Can’t harness it into swinging punches and sharp words. Ian’s given him so much—but he’s taken things from him, too.

Mickey doesn’t even attempt to control the tremble in his voice. Knows it wouldn’t do any good. “I can’t. You know I can’t. Shit, Ian, what do you want from me?”

Ian’s face softens, and Mickey tries to pretend it’s not because he just heard _badass Mickey Milkovich_ on the verge of fucking tears. “I dunno, Mickey. I just…I needa be more than this—more than a secret fuck buddy. I’m just done with that, and if you can’t move on, I don’t think we should even bother pretending anymore.”

Mickey clenches his fists around sheet, but his nails still dig painfully into his palms even with that bit of fabric shield. “What are you saying? What more do you want me to do? I left the bitch. I left my house. I’m here with you. I go with you to the fucking club—”

Ian huffs and goes to pull on some boxers. Fuck. Confirmation there’s no way they’re getting back to where this morning started. “Don’t act like going to the club is such a chore. You know you fucking love it. You know that thing, where you get to grab me and kiss me whenever you feel like it? You could have that other places, if you weren’t such a coward.”

What happened to the filter on that kid’s fucking mouth? Mickey shoots up, grabbing is own boxers on the way, because there’re some things even Ian can’t get away with. “Fuck you, asshole. You know goddamn well why I can’t go around telling everyone our private fucking business.”

“Never asked you to tell everyone,” Ian responds. He’s dressing now, pulling up jeans and turning his back on Mickey. “How about _any_ one?”

“I told your pansy-ass friends.”

Ian barks a laugh and yanks on a shirt. “Yeah, real brave. Telling a bunch of gay guys what they already fucking knew.”

He goes for the door and Mickey scrambles to step in front of him and block his exit. “Why you always gotta want more, huh? Nothing’s ever good enough.”

“That’s right.” Ian tries to step around, but Mickey doesn’t budge. This’ll come to blows before he lets Ian walk away. “It’s not good enough. I got no guarantees with you, and I’m sick of it.”

Mickey closes his eyes for a moment to gather strength. But Ian has all the power here, really, and he obviously knows it. After a few seconds of lip biting, it’s crystal fucking clear there’s no choice but to give in. “What do I gotta do?”

Ian takes a deep breath as he considers. “Tell someone. The words coming out of your mouth, of your own free will.”

“So you want me to risk my life? _Our_ fucking lives?”

Ian’s smug grin is back, and fuck if Mickey doesn’t want to kiss it off him. He just doesn’t think it’d be well received at this moment, and he wouldn’t be able to deal with his once lovesick Ian turning away a kiss.

“I didn’t say you had to go tell some homophobic asshole that’ll beat the shit outta you…you know, like the kind you used to be.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not gonna happen unless you fucking man up,” Ian almost sings out, that grin plastered on his face. And what is with the fucking mood swings? From horny to anger to indifference to fucking laughter in how many minutes?

Ian slips his arms around Mickey and leans in. Hot breath washes over Mickey’s face. He’s suddenly frozen in place, locked in anticipation…even if it isn’t logical to expect what he so badly wants right now.

Two inches from their lips connecting, Ian spins Mickey around, freeing his route of escape. “Why don’t you start with my family. And try not to threaten them with death afterwards.”

He’s out the door in the next second, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he doesn’t give a shit that their lives together are on the verge of imploding.  Yet fucking again. What the hell is wrong with that kid?

“And if I don’t?” Mickey calls after him.

No response.

And somehow, the silence is worse than anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

Mickey returns from work to an empty home. It’s a rare time in the Gallagher household and he’s fucking grateful. He needs time alone to think about Ian’s stupid demands.

A part of him wants to believe the kid will forget all about it by the time he’s back from wherever he’s gone—probably another eight mile run. His mind has seemed to bounce from topic to topic without much prompting these days.

But if there’s one thing Ian never seems to forget, it’s Mickey. And with Mickey’s luck, that would extend to their argument this morning, and to the fucking ultimatum that Mickey start stepping outside his mostly padlocked closet.

So he heads straight to the fridge to grab a beer. No way is he gonna attempt to untangle this knot in his head—and chest—sober.

“Get me one, will ya?” A quiet voice interrupts before he can crack open a can of mental escape.

“Fuck!” He jumps backs, startled, and god, he really has been acting like a pussy lately. “Shit, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” Fiona’s voice is unusually small-sounding. She may be a girl but she’s no delicate flower, so something’s up. He walks around to the living room with her beer and isn’t surprised to find her curled in fetal position on the couch, in the dark, with eyes surrounded by black holes of smeared mascara.

Fuck. He doesn’t need this.

Without looking her way again, he drops the beer on the couch and walks past her, aiming for the stairs. He plans to take them two at a time to get away from this train wreck as fast as possible.

“Thanks.” Her voice is little more than a tear-streaked whisper.

He grunts a response, hand on the railing.

“Oh, and uh—”

Shit, he should really ignore that and keep going…but against his better judgment, he stops to hear whatever she has to say.

Fiona sits up and clears her throat after a swallow of beer. She sounds stronger and more like herself when she next speaks—alcohol really was a great band aid for worldly troubles, even if it didn’t actually allow any healing to go on underneath.

“Lip told me you chipped in—a lot—for bills and stuff. I dunno if we woulda made it this month otherwise, so thank you.”

Mickey bites the tip of his tongue and goes up a couple more steps. Genuine gratitude is still so foreign to him that it makes his skin crawl. His body wants to reject it, throw out some smartass remark as a shield—but it’s Ian’s sister, and she’s clearly in a shit place, and somehow instead he finds himself—accepting.

“No problem. I’ll see what I can do next month, too.

“Great. Not sure why you’re doing it, but seriously, thanks.”

Mickey’s on the fourth step. The fourth and there really are so few left until freedom, if he could just get his body to fucking _move._

He stands still. _Not sure why you’re doing it._ Sometimes he thinks everyone around him already knows about him and Ian…that he can’t fool a single damn person. Mandy knew. So did Lip. And how long had they known? A while, at least, and nothing horrible had ever come of it. ‘Cause they were good people—even that asshole Lip—but mostly because they loved Ian and would never put him in any danger.

Fiona loved Ian, too.

Without realizing it, Mickey has backtracked down the stairs and is standing behind the couch again. Fiona is looking at him expectantly.

If this is all Ian really wants—for the people he loves to know who he is—then shit, maybe it isn’t such a terrible demand. Maybe Mickey could give him this one thing—this one step to prove that he really is in their…fuck… _relationship._

Besides, if Mickey doesn’t tell her, she’ll find out somehow. From someone else, or from seeing something or hearing something…and then all Mickey’s power would be taken away anyhow. At least this way, it’ll be on his terms.

He opens his mouth slowly. What exactly does he need to say? What’re the right words? Mickey doesn’t know right words. Only curses and put downs and snide comments. How exactly does one…come out?

“I’m…I’m sleeping with Ian.”

Fiona’s eyebrows dip down and the smooth skin of her forehead crinkles up. “Excuse me?" 

“Sleeping with him. You know…fucking.” And Jesus Christ, he’s about two seconds away from making a hole with one hand and a dick with the other to demonstrate banging. What the hell?

“Shit.” Fiona drops her head into her palms. “God, I so hoped it wasn’t that.”

Mickey grits his teeth, arms tensing like he’s preparing for a fight. It won’t be a physical one, but he’s not gonna be some girls’ bitch just because she didn’t _approve_ of him.

She looks up again, and Mickey eyes her warily, because she suddenly looks half-hopeful. “Is it just about sex with you two?”

“I fuckin’ wish.” The words are out of Mickey’s mouth before he can stop them. He’s not sure if they’re even true—if he’d really want to go back to that time when sex was all he claimed to need. Things had been easier, sure, but there’d been so much of himself that he’d been missing.

Fiona nods slowly. “How long?”

“A few years.”

She slams her hands on the couch and rolls her eyes. “Of course I’m only hearing about it now. Jesus Christ.”

He shrugs, balancing his can of beer on the back of the couch so he can reach for a cigarette. His hands tremble a bit but he gets it lit up and now he feels safer. Something to occupy his mind and body while she tires herself out. “That was probably my fault. Didn’t really like being open about this.”

Now she squints, and he can see her calculating things behind those normally wide brown eyes. “You got married right when he took off, didn’t you? Fuck. Just, fucking perfect. And I knew nothing about this and I wasn’t there for him.”

She shoots up, and Mickey takes a few steps back. The can of beer topples over and seeps into the couch. Neither of them make a move to clean it up—that couch has seen more than one spilled can it its lifetime.

“Hey, I didn’t make him leave.” He has to take an extra long puff of his cigarette after that because the lie nearly makes him want to sprint to a bathroom and vomit. It _is_ his fault. It’s his fault and now he’s standing in the Gallagher living room, confessing to his boyf…to Ian’s sister…things he never, ever wanted to say aloud because he _has_ to find a way to make it up to Ian or he won’t be able to live with himself.

“You knocked up some prostitute and married her. While you were fucking my brother.”

Mickey takes a deep breath of slightly smoky air. He can’t risk bringing the cigarette to his lips this time because his hand is shaking too damn much. “Wasn’t my choice.”

“It wasn’t your choice to knock up some slut?” Fiona shoots back, incredulous brows rising up with her voice.

At least she’s used her anger to get over whatever had her so fucked up when he came in. Mickey almost smiles—some people have all the luck.

But there’s no way in hell he’s going to tell her about…about _that_ , so he just shakes his head. “Yeah. Like I said, not my fucking choice.” His voice is tight and it must give away too fucking much, because he sees some of her agitation melt away.

She sighs and sinks back onto the couch. “I don’t want this for him. I want him to have better than”—she gestures around at the walls—“than _this_.”

Mickey nods because he knows what she means—agrees, even—but beneath that there’s this tiny, lovesick moment where he looks at the Gallagher walls and thinks he’d give anything for _this_ to be his. To really belong here, in this home, with this family. They don’t know how good they’ve got it.

He flicks the lit end of the cigarette against his other hand to bring him back to reality. “Well it’s our business, so sorry, but you don’t really get a say.”

In this whole world, Ian is the only place where he belongs. He knows now he’ll do anything to make sure it stays that way.

She reaches towards him and it takes him a moment to realize she’s motioning for the cigarette. He passes it to her slowly.

“If you’re gonna do this”—she draws in from the cigarette—“then you better fucking protect him. If he’s gonna be with a Milkovich then he better fucking get that benefit. You protect him from anything that’ll hurt him, you hear me?”

Mickey nods numbly. He’s not used to taking orders from women, but he supposes this time he can make an exception. “Yeah. I will.”

The front door opens and Ian bursts in. His cheeks are flush, his red hair is a tousled mess, and his eyes are bright. Fuck, he looks amazing. There needs to be fucking going on between them, as soon as possible.

Or at least kissing. Lots of slow kissing. Ian’s lips look cold, but Mickey could warm them up fast enough.

Shit, he’s so fucking whipped.

“Hey, what’s up?” Ian chirps. He’s chugging a water bottle and running his hand through strands of sweat-glossed hair.

“Not much,” Fiona replies. “Just catching up with your boyfriend.”

Mickey squints in pain—did she really have to use that fucking word?—but the look Ian gives him right then strips him of all his discomfort in a second flat.

It’s just this long, deep stare, with the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

He’s surprised Ian. He’s made him happy. And fuck if that doesn’t fill Mickey with all kinds of totally gay emotions—warmth, love… _pride_.

He ducks his head down to hide his own smile. “Yeah, well, that’s enough of this shit.”

Ian grabs his arm and yanks him up the stairs.

“Mickey,” he murmurs, cornering him against the door as soon as they’re safely in his room. “You did it.”

And yeah, Ian’s lips are cold, but they’re also soft and amazing and Mickey can’t help but sigh into the kiss.

 _Sigh_ into a _kiss_. God, how this kid has changed him.

“Wasn’t a big deal,” he murmurs back, and he can’t keep an idiotic grin off his face. He knows he’s made the right decision here. He’s absolutely positive.

Ian wraps his arms around Mickey and pulls him close. “Yeah, it kinda is. I mean…I didn’t think…I didn’t know if…” he stops, as his voice has grown hoarse. He rests his head on Mickey’s shoulder, and all of the sudden, Mickey realizes he’s completely encompassed in a fucking _hug._

It’s not so bad, though.

“I’m sorry about this morning, Mickey,” Ian says, his voice small, like Fiona’s was earlier. “I don’t know why I… I mean, I know you…I didn’t mean to…” He stops again, and Mickey can feel him trembling.

This isn’t the reaction Mickey wanted. He wanted the kissing, yeah, but immediately after (or during), he expected clothes off and sweaty, no-deep-thought-required fucking.

But instead Ian is shaking against him, holding on to him in a crushing embrace like his life depends on it.

_You protect him from anything, you hear me?_

She’d meant assholes in the neighborhood, most likely. His father. Jackasses who wanted to take advantage at the club.

But she’d said _anything_ , and he’d agreed.

He’d agreed and Ian was right, he was a fucking coward if he kept pretending things right in front of his face didn’t exist, just because he was terrified of the truth.

“Hey.” He clumsily brings his hand up to stroke Ian’s hair. It’s an unfamiliar movement to him and he can’t remember the last time he comforted anyone like this—maybe Mandy, when they’d both been small. “Ian…are you okay?”

Ian backs up quickly, flashing this strange, over-excited smile. “Yeah. I’m great. Totally great.”

Mickey steps forward. “’Cause it’s okay if you’re not, you know.”

Ian’s brow furrows and he swallows hard. “I’m great,” he repeats.

“Yeah.” Mickey forces his hand out and captures Ian’s twitching fingers. They’ve never really held hands before—unless they just happened to tangle mid-fuck. This is different, though, because fucking is nowhere on the horizon. “But it’s okay if you’re not. I can… I can help. Somehow. If you just let me.”

Ian stares at him, mouth hanging slightly open, face darkening to somewhere between confusion and fear. When he finally speaks, his voice is little more than a whisper. “But you’ll run. You always fucking run.”

“I won’t.” Mickey tightens his hold on Ian’s hand. “I know I fucked up before, but I swear to you it’s not gonna happen again. I’m in this. I’m all fucking in. Fiona knows now…Lip knows, Mandy knows…I’ll even tell the rugrats if you want.”

Ian lets loose a watery laugh, and as pained as it is, it’s still a beautiful sound because it’s _real._ “I don’t even know, Mick. I don’t even know what’s going on in my head. I just want it to stop.”

This time it’s Mickey who pulls them close, so that their hips are touching. Ordinarily such bodily contact would get him hot, but for once he puts that to the back of his mind and concentrates on the boy in front of him.

“Then we’ll figure out a way to make it stop. A safe way, all right?”

Ian closes his eyes and their lips brush together. It’s barely a kiss—and the gentlest touch they’ve ever shared. “You’re all I’ve got, Mickey.”

“Yeah.” Tears Mickey will never let himself cry crowd his throat, like they’ve done so often since Ian came into his life. “Same.”

‘Cause the kid has taken so much from him—his bravado, his safety in the Southside, even his sanity at times.

And his stupid, weak, previously worthless heart. Taken it all and given him back something much stronger.

He holds Ian in his arms and he knows, now it’s his turn to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited because there's only like a day left before this becomes AU, lol. :P

**Author's Note:**

> I tried not to write this, but it happened anyway. I don't actually think this'll be what happens, because it's not "shameless" enough...but it's nice to pretend for a bit. 2nd part should be up tomorrow.


End file.
